Tag Archives: real em-effing life

The Song Is Done: A Conversation with Jason Molin

Posted on by
Reply

When I started the interview series on this blog (and Improv Wins), I really wanted it to be a conversation with creative people — not just improvisers or actors, but writers, teachers, musicians, and other entrepreneurs and explorers — to talk about their process and to understand improvisation from different points of view.

I started out with seven questions to lead and frame the conversation. It was good — and my first interviewees (Taylor Overstreet and Michele Campbell) were wonderful and interesting and fun and I loved hearing their stories. But the idea of the framing questions just didn’t hold up after two rounds. I knew I wanted to change my approach, and I knew that I wanted my third interview to be with another creative in Austin. And that I wanted to talk to a musician or songwriter.

I know. Austin. Songwriter/musician. How was I ever going to make that happen?!

I didn’t have to think about my next interviewee too hard. In fact, took less than a second. I wanted to talk to my friend (and I’m honored to have the pleasure of calling him that), Jason Molin.

Jason is not only a talented songwriter and musician (and great person), he’s also the inspiration behind my starting this blog in the first place. So I asked my favorite local musician and creative person to talk with me about creative blocks. Continue reading →

Epilogue: The Time I Dated Mel Gibson’s “Brother” (There’s More)

Posted on by
Reply

I forgot part of the story. It hit me today during a chat on Twitter revolving around the missed opportunity to go FULL THUNDERDOME while on a date with Mel Gibson’s (Older, Not As Good Looking) Brother. For those of you who were not alive in the 80s, or who just don’t know what going FULL THUNDERDOME is like, it goes something like this:

After I ditched “Mel Gibson’s Older (Not As Good Looking) Brother” at the café, which felt like this:

I came home, showered off the smell of disaster, and opened my email.

Oh, no.

OH, YES.

Now, I know what you’re thinking and, no, he did not send me a picture of Little Mel.

That happened on a different night, different guy.

He wrote to talk about what a wonderful time he had…

K…

And how I was at my most beautiful when my personality was …soft.

I don’t know what he meant by that, really. My best guess is that, as a misogynist with Hitler issues, he meant those moments when I wasn’t having an opinion. Or starting a war somewhere.

And my reply went a lot like this:

Greatness (Here): An Open Letter to the Church from My Generation

Posted on by
Reply

Amazing post that deserves a re-post (or is that riposte?), that deserves thought (and consideration).
And most of all compassion.
And most of all love.
And most of all with a smile, with a clap of the hands, and a shout.
(You can shout hallelujah if you want.)

An Open Letter to the Church from My Generation.

The Time I Met The Man Who Hates Peanut Butter

Posted on by
Reply

The first thing you need to know about me (and especially for this story) is that I love peanut butter.

It’s creamy.

It’s delicious.

It’s American.

We can argue the virtues of crunchy vs. creamy some other time (that deserves a post of its own and probably a debate panel and maybe local news coverage). What we cannot dispute is that peanut butter is the all-American treat that has no equal.

I met a guy at a café (again).

I should probably stop meeting guys at coffee shops. You’d think I’d learn…

Nice enough guy. Cute enough. We were having a lovely conversation, actually. It was both misogyny and racism free, which is always great, always a plus.

I’m scared of ghosts. Particularly ghosts who wear disturbing pointy hats…

Your guard is lowering, I can feel it. So was mine! Finally, a date that wasn’t going to end with me trying to escape the table like Steve McQueen!

And then he said: “I hate peanut butter.”

Without provocation, mind you. You can’t just put that out there without having to explain it. It’s like saying “The moon landing never happened.”

And, being me, I couldn’t help myself. I looked at him, obviously concerned for his mental health and stability. “Are you allergic?”

“No.”

“Is it the texture? I don’t like crunchy either…”

“No. I just don’t like it. I can’t have it in the house.”

“So, if you were in a relationship with a person…”

You see where I’m going, don’t you…

“… and that person loved peanut butter…”

“It wouldn’t work out. It’s the peanut butter or me.”

Silence.

“Well, that’s a dealbreaker then.”

We tried to talk around it for the next five minutes. He also stated, for the record, that he never goes north of 12th Street.

That’s ok. Everyone in Austin knows that everything north of 12th Street is PEANUT BUTTER COUNTRY.